


Corned Beef, Love & Lust

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Desire, Drug Withdrawal, Ficlet, Hospitals, Hugs, M/M, Neck Kissing, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 10:10:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16742032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: Set at the end of the 'Canticle' episode.Like Morse had said to the beaten Dudley Jessop after the filming of that television programme days before, ‘If love isn’t dirty, then I expect you aren’t doing it right’ - there was no denying there was a love between himself and Thursday. But that line… between the friendship of two colleagues and something more… was weakening by the day. And they both knew it.Fred is weak from losing Joan; Morse is weak from the LSD-like drug he had ingested during the case. In the hospital scene, their weaknesses get the better of them. They embrace but they want more.





	Corned Beef, Love & Lust

**Author's Note:**

> Old fic. Written in 2017 and posted to Tumblr.

Endeavour, eyes still closed, writhed in the hot, knotted sheet - the bedding clammy and curled tightly around his torso. But something didn’t feel quite right about _this_ bed. The fact that he couldn’t remember where the hell he had been greatly troubled him. And his head felt like it was on the verge of splitting in two. “Morse,” he heard a gentle voice. His eyelids fluttered.

“Morse,” there was that voice again. Initially, he was surprised to see the source as Inspector Thursday, sat idly by his bedside, until the memories of the awful Maplewick Hall and the poisoning came flooding back to his addled mind.

“What day is it?” he asked. He couldn’t help but wonder how _long_ he had been in this hospital bed.

“Corned beef,” Fred said, calmly. The room was oddly quiet and there wasn't birdsong, nor traffic, to be heard. He didn’t want to raise his voice. He didn’t want to scare the lad.

“Friday,” Endeavour came to realise with a sigh. “It’s Friday.”

“That’s right. It’s Friday.” Thursday studied the beautiful shape of the young man in front of him, skinny as a rake, though somewhat sculpted, with mildly muscular arms poking from a tight white vest and a messy crop of blonde hair which was simply begging to be tousled. Fred swallowed. Morse was attractive, even in this state - somehow he was _more_ so.

“Did she confess?” Endeavour asked, but while he may have wanted to talk about the _case_ , Fred couldn’t stop thinking about what he shouldn’t - men - more precisely, the lithe Latino and Arab conquests of his time during the forces, and Morse’s startling likeness to them as he stretched his body, showcasing his chest and just a hint of groin.

Morse observed that all eyes were on him. He was a detective after _all._ Thursday didn’t want to talk about the case. He wanted to talk about _Morse_. “How long have you been here? With me?” he added.

“Five…” he began, “or six hours.”

The blonde man was clearly shocked by the admission as Thursday joined him on the bed. The rough fabric of his suit brushed against Endeavour’s bare skin and the sensation of Fred’s thigh beside him, though warm and familiar, startled him. “Why are you surprised, lad? I couldn’t bear to lose another person close to me,” he said in despair.

Fred was, of course, referring to the current unknown whereabouts of his daughter, Joan. He possessed a fatherly love for the pair of them - both Joan and Endeavour - but his feelings for the latter were more complicated. Long-buried memories of his fondness for those young, pretty boys during his days as a soldier affected his better judgement. Win knew of his past, and her acceptance of it had gone on to firmly _cement_ her place as Mrs. Thursday, but it still went unspoken in their household. And sometimes the unspoken needed to be spoken.

“I was worried about you, lad,” he leaned in, wrapped his strong arms around Morse and whispered into his ear. But now something had gripped Thursday and he couldn’t stop himself. He placed a chaste kiss to the nape of Endeavour’s neck, his left side being out of view of the hospital window, the whole of it disguised as a manly hug. He was aware of how careful he had to be, _especially_ given the nature of the recent case.

Endeavour smiled and hummed in approval and Fred kissed into his neck again, this time undoubtedly sexual, with more fervour and open mouth. He feared he may be perceived as taking advantage of the young policeman’s post-drugged confusion. But, how ever ill he may still have been feeling, there was nothing confusing to Morse about Thursday’s actions.

Whilst he may not have known of the dalliances had by Fred in his youth, Endeavour thought that possibly, like _himself_ , he had been affected by the events of the recent case. Joy Pettibon’s husband had so tragically hanged himself because he could not live with what he was, for one. And, like Morse had said to the beaten Dudley Jessop after the filming of that television programme days before, ‘If love isn’t dirty, then I expect you aren’t doing it right’ - there was _no_ denying there was a love between himself and Thursday. But that line… between the friendship of two colleagues and something more… was weakening by the day. And they both knew it.

As the older man slowly retreated, Endeavour rolled onto his side and pulled the damp sheets halfway back to reveal his body, but to show nothing to the passers-by. He bravely took a hold of Thursday’s hand, now shaking, and placed it underneath that tight white vest so that it was in direct contact with his sticky chest and, soon, underneath his boxer shorts, to be in direct contact with something else entirely. Morse’s reaction to Thursday’s affections was evident in its grasp, and the gaze shared between them was one of love, lust and fear.

They could not be caught. Fred retracted his hand with a cough. He appeared to stumble over his words, his cheeks crimson. “I.. I had better let you get some rest,” he advised, lifting himself from the bed, for now he was worried that Morse was most certainly _still_ under the influence of the poison LSD-like drug.

And, as Endeavour slumped back into the pillows, watching his superior make his way to the exit, he _too_ wondered whether or not he was still under the spell of the mixture himself, as his mind would continue to race fifty to the dozen into the night, filled with a thousand images of Fred, and just _why_ Morse had welcomed those kisses upon his neck and guided those _trembling_ fingers around his prick.


End file.
